


I'll always be by your side as our wish never dies

by MushroomMae



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-15 23:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7243465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomMae/pseuds/MushroomMae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those shared moments of Ethan and Cecily Frye, filled with happiness and bitterness, hope and desperation. Recalling the past while foreseeing the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this fanfic are my headcanons about the twins' parents. I've been interested in them and thinking of what their life could be before the twins's birth. So the twins won't be appearing quite often though I do love to write their stories as well.  
> It's rated teen and up because I used some terms of the assassin training, but there's not going to be any graphic depictions of violence.  
> Finally managed to gather my courage and post my first chapter. Hope my fanfic is understandable enough because English is not my mother tongue. Anyway I'm still trying my best to improve my English so that I can write better. And many thanks to my friend Shreya who encouraged me to write fanfics in English <3  
> Sincerely hope you can enjoy my work and please post a comment if you like it :)

Seven years. Yes, it has been seven years, not long but neither short, since the taking over of his twins from Wales. Everything is going well. At least it seems well. Crouch. Sneaking. Leap. Yank. Beat. From the initial resistance to the somehow unwilling acceptance, and later the present progress signifying the incoming shift to skillful assassin. His children are becoming the ones in the wish sight. Or to say, the wish sight has become them. Wish sight. Dynamic and fruitful. Vital seeds planted by him and his love. Cecily, lively and unfaded, as a dweller in his thumb-caressed pocket watch and in his memories. Those memories. Sweet and bitter. Vivid and vague.

******

“Honestly I'm afraid you've got nothing like a lady.” He playfully commented, observing her blushed with sweat, carefully tidying up her ruffled outfit, with two or three ringlets jumping out of her bun, mindlessly swinging in the air.

“Well, that was nothing particular but a training. Besides, terribly sorry to say I’ve never seen such a gentleman like you.” She criticized back, frowning, throwing a squint at his heavy drunk body conquering the whole sofa.

She’d always pretend to be stern, stern enough to teach him a lesson at no time. However, never did she manage. Because every time she wouldn't help herself bursting into laughters, at confronting his two eyes, right at her front, glittering with frisky joys. Joys out of strong affections. Affections for her uniqueness. 

Unique? Yes, she was unique. This thought of her flickered in his mind the first time they encountered. Cunning verdant eyes. Stealth. Instancy of assassination. Intelligence. Decisiveness of judgement. An extraordinary assassin. Rather a “devil on battlefield” than an “angel in the house”. In fact, she’d been despising those constraints. She wasn't used to the strapping corset or the intricate frock, even narrowly stumbled by her long wedding dress (though she contended that it was the dress which ought to be blame). She dared to compete with men as well, by both fighting techniques and intellectuality.

He’d been thinking of having a daughter like her. Or maybe a son. No matter which, he’d be sure to cherish this blessing, for in his or her veins there’d be the heritage from her flowing. Somehow, out of expectation, it happened to them that they were going to have both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for liking and hope you enjoy your reading xx (though I felt like I was making soap opera like nonsense :/  
> And sorry for the lateness coz I've been busy preparing for my test feeling as if I'm dying X|  
> This chapter is largely based on my personal head canons, such as I assume Ethan calls Cecily "Sissy" as a nickname. Anyway plz feel free to talk to me about any stuff worthy of discussion - debatable or interesting, whatever though. Looking forward to your sweet comments <3

“In no way I’m blaming you, my darling. The one who’d be sorry is _me_. It was quite a luxury being the focus in the family for eight-month-long – I’d rather be grateful then wouldn't I? Do tell Mother I love her and please don't feel sad for her only-daughter’s leaving. And do be happier darling! You're Papa Ethan now!”

“Why don't you smile goodbye to me, darling? I’m not leaving. And do remember I'll always be by your side as long as our wish never dies.”

Soon after the last words, her pale hand wearily slid off his warm folded palms, leaden head turned and lowered with scarce strength, and eyelids braces were smashed by fatigue. It was her first day of literally being a mother, unfortunately her last day as well, as Reaper kissed on her lips and exiled the ruby color.

“ _Sissy, NOOO!!!_ ” A hysterical long howl tore the silence of mortality, mingled with the newborns’ cry (as if the two little poor things had already foreseen the leaving of their mother and begged her to stay).

“ _Sissy, NOOO!!!_ ” He bursts into waking in bursts of tears. The tragedy happened countable hours ago befell to him in his nightmare again. Two dimensions of time parallel with each other like montage. The same turbidity dims his eyes for the second time.

Slumberous. Hypnotized. Melancholy has made this young widower a set of skull without flesh, or an emptied shell without soul. It is the tricky hands of fiend rather than his own mentality that make a commander of his four limbs. He grabs his watery eyes, endeavors to get up, and attempts to acquiesce, or better to say, endure the cold and cruel reality which seems to him like an endless nightmare. Unconsciously, he is about to make way for her to get her awkward heavy body crossed and later support her weight on one of the shoulders to help her move to the dining table for breakfast as soon as she got dressed in her huge loose gown (nightgown, she’d always playfully complain). Just as the routines which he has followed until this morning – he turns halfway, only to find there's nobody by his side anymore, but stains of crimsons, maybe in his imagination.

Blood. Blood. Blood. As if there were streams of hot boiling blood sprang from his brain, veiled his eyes like waterfall and disturbed his eyesight. A ruthless chilling November night. A harsh storm tossing sparrows of gales and rain. And a preparing father rushing and struggling to make his way to the doctor’s. He just managed to defeat the coldness (though actually his hustle helped him do so) and get rid of the distractive annoyance caused by getting-lost halfway (apparently he wasn't one hundred percent ready to be a father – it was just the third year of his twenties though). He was urged by the emergent arrival of his twins – it was several weeks earlier than their due date, totally unexpected. Resembling their father’s haste, the two little creatures were hustling on their way too – from the warm, cozy and crowded womb to the unwelcoming, heartless but wider world, cursing their poor mother who was right now on the bed twisting and panting out of breath-taking pains. At the thought of that, his brain couldn't help but stir, stuffed with metallic clatters of basins, shortened instructions by three or so middle-aged ladies (one was his mother-in-law who had come to take special care of her daughter once she was informed that it was a risky pregnancy with twins, the others were neighbors who thankfully agreed to come to help during his absence), and the breathless screams of her which made him feel the same level of bitterness, or even higher.

Blood. Blood. Blood. As if she was soaked in the mixture of sweat and blood, with her hair and garment adhering to her fever skin, totally drenched. A pair of tiny newborns, pinky and wrinkled, wrapped around by fluffy white towels, huddling up and hiding in Grandma’s embrace, letting out penetrating cries. A sobbing lady sitting by the bed, with face buried into the handkerchief in her hand. A lifeless figure of a young women who just reached her twenties fixed on a messy blood-stained bed. And a rain-drenched young man in muddy boots just about to step in, out of breath, wearing astonishment and desperation on his face, holding a dripping lantern the fire in which was as weak as his wife, and followed by a drenched doctor who was about to take off his hood. “Come here and have a good look at your children, my son.” The new grandmother sent him a kind invitation, namely an attempt to enliven the silent frozen air. However, without hesitation, he rejected her by ignoring the three, but rushed to the bed straightforwardly…

“Good morning, my son.” 

With recognizable slight trembles of gloom, though sufficiently firm, the greeting from the dressed Welsh lady breaks the silence of recollection and brings him back to reality – an unfamiliar place already without her. In side of the basket in her hand lie his newborn twins, side by side. Plump rosy cheeks. Sparse and soft brown hair. Tiny lips press and purse. Swell-diminished four dots of eyes glimmering and gazing inquisitively. Brandishing fine limbs indicating satisfaction of their dresses ornamented with delicate laces and expectation of the coming baptism.

The newborns? Well, though as father, he has never cast a straight glance at them, and opinionatedly claims that they are the most hideous creatures he has ever seen, out of hatred and disgust (though honestly they're remarkably becoming more adorable than they were in the first hours of their lives, in terms of appearance). But maybe to him once they _did_ deserve the adjective “adorable”, for she did think so in her last few minutes.

“Thank goodness they're healthy enough as prematures. Just look at our little boy, darling! See how incredibly this tiny little face mirrors yours!” She turned her head and smiled to the twins sleeping quietly by her pillow (they were just laid there to see Mama off, as she requested), and gently poked her son’s cheek with her fingertip. Maternity melt and glittered in her eyes.

“And do always love them. For they're hope to us.”

Hope? Who the hell believes in hope? And where on earth does hope exist when she is _gone_?


End file.
